


Girl All the Bad Guys Want

by eyeslikestarlight



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:57:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyeslikestarlight/pseuds/eyeslikestarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her fiery presence is palpable in the air as she rounds the corner (or maybe that’s just the adrenaline rushing through your veins), and you have to remind yourself to be bold. She likes bold. She likes bold, and risky, and wild. She likes motorcycles, and converse, and Warped Tour. You can totally do this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Girl All the Bad Guys Want

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write a silly little high school AU for a while, and when nostalgically listening to the song this is named after one day, I was struck by this idea and just had to write it. For that, I sincerely apologize.

She’s perfect.

She’s seriously fuckin’ perfect, and you’re gonna die if you don’t at least take a shot at her.

In a school full of boring, preppy girls wearing Ugg boots and toting around Coach purses, she is the sparkling exception. Her name is Vriska, and she struts down the hallways in skintight ripped black jeans and a cutoff Blink-182 shirt, her jet-black hair streaked with electric blue. She’s got three tattoos already, despite being barely 18, and a nose ring along with multiple ear piercings. Each fall of her combat boots dares you to mess with her, and it’s a guarantee that every head is turned when she walks by. 

You find it hard to not act like a silly schoolboy with a crush around her, cause that’s exactly what you are. But you’d do anything to impress her, and you know you’ve got to step up your game if you ever want a chance with her.

Once, you tried leaving a note in her locker. It was a poem you’d written, anonymously, alone in your bedroom with sad indie music playing as you poured out your feelings onto paper.

She opened it up, glanced at it for a solid three seconds, then laughed and crumpled it up, tossing it behind her into the crowded hallway to be trampled underfoot.

Okay, so she obviously requires a more bold approach. You’re all about being bold. It’s practically your middle name. Eridan Bold Ampora.

So you leaned across the lab table in your physics class and told her very boldly that you liked her Iron Maiden shirt. She didn’t bother to remove one of her headphones.

In a desperate, crazy, last-ditch attempt at getting her attention, you even dyed a large chunk of your hair purple in the front. You’re pretty sure she didn’t even glance your way.

But this is it. Today is the day that you’ve decided, _enough is enough_. You’re gonna stop being such a coward, and you’re gonna win her over.

You take a deep breath (or two) (or seven) and lean up against her locker just before you know that she’ll be using it. (not that you know her schedule or anything.) (okay fine, you have it memorized. so what?)

Her fiery presence is palpable in the air as she rounds the corner (or maybe that’s just the adrenaline rushing through your veins), and you have to remind yourself to be bold. She likes bold. She likes bold, and risky, and wild. She likes motorcycles, and converse, and Warped Tour. You can totally do this.

When she stops in front of you and shoots you a death glare, you’re hardly even bothered, because _oh my god she’s actually looking at you, she’s looking right at you._ She crosses her arms and taps her foot and purses her blue lips and clears her throat, but you just smile cheekily and offer your hand.

 “The name’s Eridan,” you tell her in a confident tone. Yup, no trace of nervousness there. You’ve got this shit on lock.

 She rolls her eyes. “I know who you are, dumbass, we’ve been in the same classes since 6th grade.”

 This brings you to a momentary halt, because _she knows your fuckin’ name!_ This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you.

 But you quickly snap back to reality and gather your thoughts, your confident grin returning in full force. “Right. Just makin’ sure.”

 “Great! Thanks so much for that lovely reminder, Eridickhead. Now get the fuck out of my way,” she tells you in a mockingly sweet tone.

 You slide over, undeterred, even when she opens the locker door so hard that it nearly slams you in the face. “Listen, so I’ve been thinkin’…”

 “Not even in your wildest dreams,” she says as she grabs her books, then slams the locker door with such force that the vibrations of the cold metal rattle your bones, leaving you stunned as she stalks off.

 Well, fuck.

* * *

 

 

Okay, so that last attempt didn’t exactly go so well. But hey, you talked to her! And better yet, she knew your name! You can totally do this.

 In fact, you’re 100% confident that you can do this. Why is that? Because you’ve got a plan, goddamnit. You’ve got a ten-day plan to woo your fair maiden, and it’s absolutely foolproof. She’s gonna have to notice you now.

 And once she notices you, well. She surely won’t be able to resist your charm.

 

_day one: monday_

After copious amounts of begging, numerous threats, and a promise to be his slave for the day, your older brother Cronus finally gave in and said that you could drive his beloved motorcycle to school. He dropped his nice guy act and warned you that he’d kick your ass into next year if you got so much as a scratch on it, but you assured him that you’re a pro.

As you pull into school, making sure to rev the engine a few times, several heads turn your way curiously. There are a few murmurs around you as you pull off your helmet and run a hand through your hair, but the only reaction you care about is hers.

She’s sitting on the steps to the school with her usual crowd, a cigarette between her fingers despite the clear “No Smoking” sign. Her eyes meet yours for a brief moment (your heart nearly leaps out of your chest, but you keep your cool), and she frowns just slightly as her gaze travels down to your brother’s bike. You’d give anything to be able to read her mind right now.

 

“I didn’t know you had a motorcycle,” she says in physics. You look up at her like a deer in headlights for a second (she’s talking to you she’s _talking to you_ ) before you compose yourself and flash her a confident grin.

“Oh yeah, totally,” you nod, puffing out your chest a bit.

“How come I’ve never seen it before? Is it new?”

 This catches you off guard. You didn’t exactly have an answer prepared, cause you never would have guessed that she’d talk to you on _day one._ Wow, your plan is even better than you thought.

 “Uh, no, I just…I’m worried that some asshole is gonna scratch it or mess with it somehow, so I only take it to school every once in a while.” It’s a pretty bad lie, but it’s not totally unbelievable. At least, you hope so.

 She studies you for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Maybe you’re not as much of a dweeb as I thought you were.”

 “I am the very definition of cool,” you promise her.

 “Oooooooor not,” she scoffs, turning her chair away and putting her headphones back on.

 Damn.

 

 

_days two--four: tuesday--thursday_

Vriska wears a lot of band shirts. She goes to a concert like every week, or so you’ve heard. Being the observant and studious sort that you are, you’ve taken note of every band shirt that she’s worn, and looked into each and every band. (oh shut up, that’s not creepy at all.) And now that you know her favorite bands well enough, you plan on using this knowledge to your advantage.

It starts off small, subtle. On Tuesday, when you walk by her, you hum the chorus of the latest singles. In physics, you lazily scrawl the band names on your desk (and you’re at least 85% sure you saw her eyes flickering over them). When you get home, you post a line or two of lyrics as your facebook status. You’re not even sure if she uses facebook, but if she does, she’ll certainly be seeing it.

She’ll see how much you have in common, and she’ll be so much more likely to give you a chance, and see your other virtues. It’s brilliant.

 On Wednesday, you wear the Say Anything shirt that you invested in. She definitely looks at it at least once. You do the same things you did yesterday. In physics, you put one headphone in your ear and leave the other dangling out, playing her music loud enough that she can surely hear it from one desk over, but your oblivious teacher doesn’t notice a thing.

And on Thursday, you break out the Taking Back Sunday shirt. You’re sure that she _has_ to say something to you, she _must_ have noticed that you like all the same music she does, and considering how into music she is, it _definitely_ means something to her.

 But she hasn’t said a word to you since Monday, and you’re feeling a little dejected.

 Luckily, tomorrow’s plan is a little more proactive.

 

 

_day five: friday_

Today, you take all the subtlety of the past three days and apply it in a manner that she has no choice but to notice.

Last night, you spent hours going through song after song and picking the best lyrics, the perfect lines, and you carefully wrote them out on thin strips of paper.

 And you leave them everywhere for her:

 her locker

  _you could be my punk rock princess, i would be your garage band king_

her physics desk

  _jesus christ, that’s a pretty face_

slipped into her bag

  _i’ve got a total crush on you, baby, and i can’t let it go_

even pressed between the pages of her books when she goes to the bathroom

  _you are everything i want, cause you are everything i’m not_

She’s sending definite glances your way now, ones that last more than a second or two. You can’t read them, but you can tell that there’s something accusatory in them. But you just smile innocently and look away. There’s still five days left to this plan.

 

 

_day six: monday_

Today, you proudly walk through the doors of the school with a silver bar through your eyebrow.

 It didn’t hurt at all, getting it pierced. (okay fine, maybe it hurt a little.) And it’s totally worth it. It gives you a certain edge, and you absolutely love it. For once, when you make eye contact with her, you feel like you deserve her attention. You feel like you deserve the slight widening of her eyes as she looks you over and realizes that you’re not the “dweeb” she talked to just a week ago.

 You considered leaving her more song lyrics, but decided against it. You wanna grab her attention, not push her away.

Still, she hasn’t said a word to you, and you’re starting to wonder if maybe you’re doing something wrong. In physics, you swear she was about to say something to you, but seemed to decide against it at the last second, and you wanted to slam your head against the desk.

That didn’t really seem like the best plan with the new, still sore protrusion on your brow.

 

 

_day seven: tuesday_

You’d become the proud new owner of several things this last weekend, but you figured introducing them piece by piece would stretch out the intrigue.

So today you’ve added the latest, which is more of an upgrade than an addition, really: you’ve replaced your dumb, ugly old glasses with an expensive new pair of thick, black-framed ones. They’re pretty much the best there is, when it comes to glasses. Some would call them hipster glasses, but you scoff at the label and brush off any such comments. Obviously they’re jealous that their glasses aren’t as cool as yours.

Ideally, it might’ve been nice to ditch the glasses entirely and just go for contacts, but even the most supposedly comfortable pair tends to make your eyes red and watery for hours, and you’d rather not look like you’re crying all day.

Besides, chicks dig guys in glasses. As long as they’re _cool_ glasses. Like yours.

And you doubt a girl who wears glasses herself more often than not is gonna advocate ditching them. More likely, she’ll admire your wise update.

…or, you know, not say anything at all. But that’s not really surprising at this point. You know you’re getting to her, despite her tight-lipped response. She’s definitely digging all these changes.

 

 

_day eight: wednesday_

After some more begging and pleading (though far less than last time), Cronus lends you his black leather motorcycle jacket. It’s 100% real leather, none of that cheap pleather shit, and you feel like the most badass guy in the school. 

At lunch, you sit outside with your friend Karkat (who tends to tolerate you most days) and bum a cigarette from someone in his circle. You’ve never had a cigarette in your life, though you’ve watched your brother go through countless packs for what seems like forever. 

It didn’t really occur to you that your first cigarette might not go so smoothly. It certainly didn’t occur to you when you’d strategically placed yourself no more than fifteen feet from where she was sitting, within direct line of sight, that you’d look like a total fool. First you have trouble lighting the damn thing, fumbling the lighter between nervous fingers, and then when you take your first drag, you inhale far too much and end up nearly hacking up a lung.

Okay, maybe you’re exaggerating just a bit. You coughed a few times, Gamzee patted you on the back, and then you were fine. Still, you expected to be laughed at. You expected her to look at you with contempt and make some comment about how pathetic you were to her friends, where they would proceed to laugh.

You did certainly receive a judging look or two from the kids around you. But not from her.

She looks at you, sure, but with something that you can’t quite place. If you didn’t know any better, you might call it disappointment.

There’s a lit cigarette between her fingers, as usual, but for the first time you notice that she rarely brings it to her lips. Instead, she just looks off into the distance and drums her blue painted nails against the ledge she’s sitting on.

 

 

_day nine: thursday_

It seems like your confidence has gone up exponentially with each new change you make this week. But today, unlike the others, you feel your first stab of uncertainty.

One of your most recent purchases had been a self-dyeing hair kit. But this time it wasn’t purple. The purple you kept, separating it from all the rest and wrapping it up to keep it protected. And locked alone in your bathroom last night, you dyed the rest of your dark brown hair a rich black.

It was a tough decision to make, but you made it a bit easier by choosing to buy the cheapest, most temporary dye you could find. That way, if you hated it, the color would fade out on its own in no time at all, and if you liked it, you could always redo it with something more permanent.

Still, it feels like a huge change, and you’re not sure if it was the best decision to make. After all, you’ve always taken pride in your hair, always taken especially good care of it, and this seemed more than a little self-destructive. And honestly, it makes your skin look even paler than it already is.

But you know one thing for sure. It will definitely catch her eye.

And it does. When she sees you in the hallway, she does a literal double take (you didn’t know those even existed in real life) and stops walking. You really have no clue if she’s admiring it or stunned by how awful it is. Knowing Vriska, it’s probably some weird combination of both.

And then she shakes her head, her lips pressed together tight, and walks off.

This is getting ridiculous.

 

 

_day ten_

It’s obvious that your plan has worked, at least in part. Somehow, someway, you have gotten her attention. Where her eyes used to pass right over you, they now linger on you for a moment or two. Nearly every time, her brow is furrowed, like she’s confused, like she doesn’t know what to make of you. It’s totally unclear how she feels about all of this, and that terrifies you.

Because today is the final step. Today is the day she’ll be yours.

This time, she’s not surprised to find you leaning against her locker door. She looks resigned, like she’s been waiting for this to happen. She doesn’t look thrilled, but you know that might be hiding her true emotions because they’re too “uncool”, so you continue anyway.

“Hey Vriska,” you nod, willing yourself to be bold.

“Eridan,” she acknowledges, eyeing you warily. “I really need to get my books.”

You magnanimously slide over so she has access to her locker. She doesn’t nearly slam you in the face by opening it this time. You take that as a good sign.

“So New Found Glory is doin’ a show here next week, and I think that you an’ I—”

“Do you even like them?” she cuts you off.

You blink. “I—what?”

“Do you even like that band? Or this one?” she asks, plucking the front of your Rise Against shirt. “Or are you just pretending to like them cause you know that I like them?”

More blinking. You can’t respond, because you have no clue how you’re supposed to respond to that. “I…”

“Look at you,” she scoffs. “What the hell did you do to yourself? Did you think I would like you better if you dyed your hair, or pierced your eyebrow, or wore a leather jacket and smoked a cigarette? Did you _really_ think that would make me think you’re cool?” 

Yes, that’s exactly what you thought. And now you’re staring at her with wide eyes and an open mouth, because this was _not_ how the plan was supposed to go.

She shakes her head at you, contempt written all over her face. “Well, it doesn’t. It makes me think you’re pathetic.”

Her words are like a slap to the face. But she doesn’t even look at you as she slams the locker door and walks off, leaving you standing there stunned for the second time in two weeks.

 

 

_day eleven: saturday_

The first thing you do this morning is shower.

That’s normally the first thing you’d do anyway, but today is different, because today, you spend what feels like hours under the hot stream, scrubbing and scrubbing at your hair until your scalp feels raw, until you can see the black-tinted water running down the drain.

When you get out and towel-dry your hair, it’s darker than usual, but not the jet black of the dye. You feel a bit more like yourself. 

The eyebrow piercing can stay, for now, because you actually like it. But everything else goes. The “hipster” glasses are put away in favor of your old ones, which actually fit you better anyway. The leather jacket goes back in your brother’s closet. The shirts for bands you honestly didn’t like that much are shoved to the back of your bottom drawer.

You dress in your normal clothes. Jeans, a dark blue sweater, your favorite boat shoes. The headphones you shove into your ears are playing a band that Vriska would probably never listen to.

Barnes and Noble is only a few blocks from your house, so you decide to walk, not even sparing a passing glance at your brother’s bike.

And in the back corner of the store, after choosing a promising new fantasy novel, you curl up in a comfortable armchair and lose yourself in another world.

It’s been far too long since you’ve done this. You’ve been so busy doing what you think she’d like that you lost sight of the things you enjoy.

You imagine what she might say if she knew what you were really into. _What a dork,_ she’d laugh. _What a fucking nerd._

“Eridan?”

Or she might just say your name, considering that’s what she just did. You look up, eyes huge, to find her standing a few feet away. She’s dressed the same way as usual, rocking fishnet tights today, but somehow the atmosphere makes her looks totally different. Or maybe it’s the fact that she’s got a Spiderman comic book clutched in one hand, and something that looks suspiciously like Harry Potter under her arm. 

“Vris,” you say, unable to say anything else. She doesn’t bother to correct you. She seems to be too busy studying you, her eyes sweeping over your totally boring appearance, so different than the way you’ve looked the past two weeks. And she seems…oddly satisfied by what she’s seeing. 

“What’s that?” she asks, nodding at your book. Words are still hard to come by, so you simply show her the cover. “Oh, I read that series. It was pretty good. Though the relationship between the two main characters made me wanna barf.” 

“I think it’s kinda sweet,” you say, surprising both her and yourself by disagreeing.

“Sweet?” She makes a face. “It’s totally gross. They’ve known each other for like two weeks and they’re already hopelessly in love? Please, gimme a break. Besides, it changes his whole character. He was so much better off without her.”

You frown and close the book, making sure to save your place first. “But she makes him happy. Isn’t that all that matters?”

She rolls her eyes. “Bleugh. It’s just gross. Personally, I think he was waaaaaaaay cooler before he met her.”

Blink. She lets that one sink in for a moment before adding, “I do like the other characters though. They’re pretty cool. Especially the warlock guy.”

You nod slowly, wondering what the hell is going on. Then you point to the comic book in her hand. “What issue is that?”

Vriska hands it to you, and you look it over. “Spiderman’s okay,” you tell her, flipping through the pages, “but I think Batman is way cooler.”

She makes an exaggerated gasp, giving you an affronted look. “You take that back!”

“Nope,” you say, wondering why you’re actively disagreeing with her, but continuing to do so. “Batman is absolutely the best there is.”

“But he’s so lame! He doesn’t even have any super powers!”

“An’ that’s the best part about him,” you counter. “He uses his own strength an’ intelligence to make his own “powers”. It’s way cooler than bein’ bit by some dumb spider.”  

“You are so wrong it’s not even funny,” she tells you, shaking her head. “I bet the chemicals from that hair dye seeped through your skull and killed all your brain cells.”

The mention of the hair dye makes you wanna cringe, but you don’t let it get to you. “Maybe they’re special radioactive chemicals that’ll give me super powers. That’s how all the cool kids get their powers, apparently.”

Vriska chuckles and sits in the open armchair next to you. “What kind of super powers would you get? The power of ultimate douchebaggery?” she scoffs.

“No, I’m pretty sure that power belongs to my brother,” you inform her.

“God, there’s another one?” she complains, wrinkling his nose.

You nod. “He’s to thank for the motorcycle an’ the leather jacket,” you admit, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Ah. That explains a lot.” She’s looking at you strangely, and you wish you knew what she was thinking. “So if that’s not your superpower, what is?”

Honestly, you don’t even know what you’d choose. So you shrug and offer a sheepish smile. “The power to fuck up royally when it comes to really cool girls?”

“Nah,” she shakes her head. “I’d chop off that last bit. Just ‘the power to fuck up royally’ in general.”

“Hey!” you protest, giving her an offended look. She laughs, and it’s pretty much the best sound you’ve ever heard.

“Okay, fine. How about ‘extreme dweebiness’?” she suggests, grinning.

Two weeks ago, that would’ve been the last thing you’d wanna hear. “I’ll take it,” you answer now. “Fits pretty well, I’d say.”

“Good,” she nods, looking pleased. “I’m glad to hear that you’ve accepted your destiny. The citizens of this planet will sleep safely tonight knowing that the Extreme Dweeb is here to save the day.”

“Damn straight they will,” you nod, striking a dramatic hero pose for good measure. It makes her laugh again. It feels really good making her laugh.

She reaches over and takes the free ipod earbud that you’d left tangling and leans in to put it in her own ear. After a moment of listening, she frowns slightly.

“I’ve never heard of this band.”

“They’re my favorite,” you tell her. “They’re not very well known, but they’re really great. You should give them a chance.”

“I might just do that,” she nods, listening for a bit longer before pulling the earbud out and letting it fall back on your shoulder. “As long as they’re actually your favorite, and not just a band you ripped off of some poor, unsuspecting girl.”

You shake your head, chuckle. “Don’t worry. I’m done with that.”

She nods, stands up. You’re sure she’s getting bored, gonna walk away, and you try not to look disappointed. But she’s still watching you. “So how’s your taste in coffee? I sure hope you’re not into any of that extra-light-strawberry-mocha-latte crap.”

At first, you don’t quite follow. And then she nods to the back of the store, where there’s a little Starbucks, complete with a small but cozy seating area.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” you respond, accepting her unofficial invitation and standing up, mentally saving your place in your book before putting it down.

“Ugh,” she shakes her head, heading towards the Starbucks. “You’re ridiculous, I hope you know.”

“Whatever you say, miss fishnets and combat boots,” you reply cheekily.

She’s walking in front of you, so you can’t see her face, but you have a sneaking suspicion that she might be smiling.


End file.
